


A Whole Lot of Fuss About Not That Much Actually

by Kicker



Series: Storytime with Deacon [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Comedy, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I Really Do Not Take Prompts Seriously Enough, Prompt Fill, Spoilers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7044280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deacon tells a little story about the angriest, most fearsome-est faction leader in the Commonwealth... and Arthur Maxson.</p><p>(In which the Sentinel doesn't exactly agree to go to an event at the Citadel as Maxson's date, but that kinda happens anyway. Comedy ensues.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whole Lot of Fuss About Not That Much Actually

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really read the brief. I hope I still get partial credit.
> 
> [this prompt](http://dyr0z.tumblr.com/post/145171548692/me-whispers-in-maxson-lovers-direction-fake) from [dyr0z](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dyr0z/pseuds/dyr0z).

Once upon a time, there was a man named Arthur, and a woman named Beatrice, or Triss to her friends.

Arthur was only allowed to call her Sentinel.

One day, she was working on a modification to her favourite laser rifle, welding goggles over her eyes, grease on her face, sweating, cursing, the whole shebang, when Arthur came and interrupted her.

"What the hell do you want?" she said.

Now you gotta understand the context here. Triss wasn't just a high-ranking member of the Brotherhood of Steel. She was the General of the Minutemen. She was the destroyer of the Institute (technically joint holder of that title). And most terrifying of all, she was a lawyer.

(She also worked for a shadowy organization of my own devising. But you didn't hear that from me.)

Arthur frowned, as was his wont, and clasped his hands behind his back, which was also his wont. It was the only way he could stop himself from gesticulating to illustrate his points, which he tended to do when he was angry, which was most of the time. But he'd been told it made him look like a politician rather than a military leader, so he tried to keep a cap on it.

"Sentinel," he said. "I've received word from the Capital Wasteland. The Council has requested that we return there, to the Citadel, for your inauguration."

"Screw that," said Triss. "I've got more than enough shit to do here."

Arthur took a deep breath. "The Prydwen will be setting off in a few hours. This is not optional. You are not to leave the ship before that time."

Triss ripped the goggles from her head and slammed them on the workbench. "You have got to be kidding me. You're kidnapping me? What the hell is this?"

Her rant went on for a little while longer, with a few more accusations, and a whole lot more expletives. Arthur stood firm in the face of it, though a muscle started twitching in his cheek like in those old romance novels he liked so much.

(Spoiler alert: still does.)

When she finally let him go, Arthur somewhat wearily wrote out a reply for transmission to the Capital Wasteland, and handed it to a Scribe. Handsome fellow, that Scribe was, with dark glasses and a pair of eyebrows that totally matched his hair, I don't know why everyone focuses on them so much. Preparations were made, the Prydwen was undocked, and it set sail (or equivalent) to the South-West.

  
On arrival, Triss was in little better humour.

A member of the Brotherhood approached, a Proctor apparently, shook both their hands and smiled benignly. "Any impending festivities?" she asked.

"That's what we're here for," said Triss, under her breath. "Dumbass."

"Keep your voice down," said Arthur.

Another approached, this one with the rank of Paladin on his arm, and saluted the pair. "Not your usual type, Maxson, but I'm sure she'll do you proud."

"Usual type?" she said. "For a Sentinel? I thought you hadn't had one under you for years?"

"Be quiet," said Arthur, a puzzled look on his face.

Then a grizzled old Paladin-Commander, out of his armour, wandered up and elbowed Arthur in the ribs.

"Good for a man to finally get his dick wet," he said with a broad wink, before sauntering cheerfully away.

Triss stopped dead. "What the hell?" she said, not bothering to lower her voice.

"Shut up," said Arthur, eyes wide.

She turned to glare at him. Being stared down by a Sentinel, General, Destroyer, _Lawyer_ who's pretty handy with a throwing knife is not the best place to be.

But he stands firm in the face of it. Twitchy cheek. Et cetera.

"Elder," she said, spitting out his title like a curse, sounds good that way. "What did you tell them?"

"Nothing," he said. "I don't know what's happening either."

"Oh," she said. "I'm sure you don't."

"Just... calm down," he said. "Let's get inside and deal with it there."

But before they can a Senior Scribe walks up and shakes Triss's hand. "It's nice to finally meet you. I'm sure you'll be very happy together."

There's a pause. Arthur cringed internally, though not as internally as he thought.

"Oh, I'm sure we will," said Triss, with a sugary smile, looking up into his eyes.

When the Scribe passed, her smile dropped. "At this moment in time I wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire," she said. "In case you were confused by my act."

A Knight approached. "You look so natural together," she said. "It gives me hope that there's someone out there for all of us."

A pause. Triss' smile, resumed at the woman's approach, started to look a little strained.

"Yes," said Arthur, with a proud smile down at Triss. "We're perfect for each other."

When the Knight passed, his smile dropped. "At this moment in time, I'd set fire to myself to get away from you."

Triss narrowed her eyes, briefly, then grabbed his hand. To a chorus of aaawwws, say it with me now, _aaawww_ , she lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed the back of it, careful to touch only his glove. "Don't get my hopes up," she said.

  
Inside the Citadel, it didn't go much more smoothly. A quick tour, for the Sentinel's benefit, then a squire showed them to their room.

Yeah. Room, singular.

Of course.

Somehow, Triss managed to wait for the door to shut and the squire's footsteps to retreat before she exploded.

"How _dare_ you?" she said, in a fury.

"How dare I _what?_ " he replied, equally angry. "I had nothing to do with it."

She tapped her foot on the floor, a fairly cliched expression of anger. "You expect me to believe you?"

"It's a simple misunderstanding," he said.

"It is so much more than that," she said. "It is a god-damned horror show. I'm your _date_?"

"You seemed perfectly happy to play along out there," he said. "If we weren't stuck in this situation before, we certainly are now _you've_ dug us into a hole."

" _I've_ dug us into a hole?" she said, "You're going to blame this on _me_?"

"I told you already," he said, through clenched teeth. "I had nothing to do with it."

"And you expect me to believe you?" she repeated. "Given your history of riding roughshod over me, you'll have to forgive me if I find that somewhat difficult to believe."

Perhaps a step too far, given recent events. The glares from both of them softened, they lowered their eyes, and each took a deep breath.

  
A little while later, there was a knock at the door. Dinnertime! Yay. Triss and Arthur were sat in pride of place, obviously, with a whole lot of people she didn't have any desire to talk to. Arthur took it upon himself to tell her who everyone was. The room was loud, and he was trying to be subtle, so she couldn't hear a thing.

"Speak up, you asshole," she said.

He leaned in closer, and carried on his task.

She stared at the side of his face until he stopped. "Oh Elder," she said. "I like when you're this close."

He closed his eyes, sat back up, and stopped talking. And luckily for him, he was clapped on the back by a senior Paladin, and invited away for some fascinating Brotherhood talk. Before he left, he put his hand on Triss's shoulder, and leaned in to deposit a kiss on the side of her head. "Don't run away," he said. "Oh. Maybe I shouldn't give you any ideas."

Triss rolled her eyes, and returned her attention to the table. When she looked to her left, she noticed a certain handsome Scribe.

"Deacon?" she said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The handsome Scribe rolled a mutfruit in his hand, and grinned. "I'm just here to watch the fireworks," he said. "Besides, I always planned to come back to the Capital Wasteland one day. Seemed like a good opportunity."

Realization dawned on her face like a beautiful yet somehow painful sunrise.

"Deacon," she said, slowly. "How long have you been on the Prydwen?"

The handsome Scribe grinned, and took a bite out of the mutfruit.

"What the... oh my God, Deacon." She buried her face in her hands. "What the hell have you done to me."

That was an interesting question, because at that exact moment, Arthur was asking the same thing.

  
"What the hell have you done to me," he said. In his hand was the message, neatly transcribed by a Scribe in the Citadel, speedily transmitted there by radio-waves, the message faithfully recorded by a certain handsome Scribe from a message written by the Elder's own hand.

Sorta.

It was signed by the Elder, anyway. So most of the verbs in the above sequence of events are accurate, but you might want to strip out the adverbs.

(You don't want too many adverbs anyway. Too flowery. Makes it difficult to read.)

Arthur, naturally, was furious, and crumpled the message in his hand.

"So that's the game you're playing," he said, to nobody in particular.

  
Back in their shared room, Triss was feeling a little awkward. There was no couch, nothing other than the bed to sleep on. And the bed looked super-comfy, nicer than anything left in the Commonwealth. Practically bridal suite, if you know what I'm saying.

And while she knew it wasn't his fault, it didn't make her like him any more, or want to give him an easy ride.

(Uh... as it were.)

"I suppose we should work out our habits," she said, when he returned. "If we're really going to make this believable. What side of the bed do you prefer?"

"Right," he said. He narrowed his eyes. "Big spoon or little spoon?"

"Big," she said, through clenched teeth. She took a couple of steps toward him. "Do we usually make out before we get into bed, or does that only happen after the lights go out?"

There was a looong pause at that, flashing eyes et cetera, and you could tell he was only a fraction of a second away from saying _something_ when she let out a disgusted noise and turned away.

She settled herself down, fully clothed, in the right-hand side of the bed.

  
The atmosphere between them was a little better the next day, mainly because they were kept apart for most of it. Her to be taken on tours and shown the glorious history of the Brotherhood, him to be taken to meetings and congratulated on finally getting his dick wet.

(This might sound weird, but this is the Brotherhood we're talking about. That one of their number had actually managed to bag a partner was probably worthy of this level of celebration.)

In the evening, Triss and Arthur reconvened once again in their shared room, ready to start preparations for the main event. The party. The fireworks. She had a glass of whiskey at her side, and a tube of mascara in her hand.

Arthur looked disapprovingly at the whiskey, mostly because he wanted one himself. "I'd like to remind you that you're here not only representing the Commonwealth, but also myself."

"I'd like to remind you," she said, "that I am a former officer's wife, and oh... no... wait... a person in my own right. I know how to look good for a god-damned crowd. This shit takes time, I'm not a Disney princess with a flock of talking fucking birds to help me get ready."

Warming to her theme, she turned on the seat and jabbed the mascara wand at him. "And if I kiss you, you still won't turn into a human, let alone a fucking prince... oh."

Her voice faded away. Arthur, you see, had peeled himself out of one majestic outfit and poured himself into another. A rather fine military-style dress uniform with golden buttons and a sash of Brotherhood blue. It matched his eyes, because if an Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel knows anything, it's how to accessorize. He'd also tidied up that beard of his a little, and looked somewhere between dashing and unrecognizable.

She'd scrubbed up pretty well too, not in an oh-my-god-there- _is_ -a-woman-under-all-that-muck-and-bad-attitude, because that's actually kind of offensive and there's no shaking _that_ bad attitude. But she had a long shimmering gown, a pair of killer heels that brought her onto eye-level with him, and an uncomplicated hairdo because it turned out that hairspray didn't survive the apocalypse all that well.

(Don't ask how the Atom Cats manage it. Trust me.)

There were no gasps as she entered the ballroom on his arm, but she'd probably have punched anyone who had gasped so that's probably a good thing. The evening started with hand-holding, loving looks, spoken words of adoration followed by muttered curses and insults. Those insults got more heated and loud, until Arthur decided he had to do something about it.

"You need to come with me," he said.

"What I need is a drink," she said, not moving.

So he took her hand, and dragged her out onto a balcony.

(The Citadel totally has balconies. Don't question my story.)

Out in the cool night air, he led her to the balustrade, and proceeded to reprimand her.

"Will you just stop," he said. "This is absurd. We just need to make it through a few days and then we can go back to the Commonwealth, and hating each other. We'll tell them it didn't work out and they'll forget all about it."

"Don't fucking corner me to have a go at me," she said, missing the point.

"Fine," he said, taking hold of her waist, and turning them around so that he had his back to the balustrade. "You're cornering me. Better?"

"What's your problem?" she said. "I'm here, aren't I? I haven't punched you yet, despite your constant provocation. What more do you want from me?"

He rubs his forehead. "I don't know. I don't care. Just keep up the damned act until we can get out of here."

If he'd been looking at her face, he'd have seen the flash of anger in her eyes.

"Act, huh?" she said, her tone dangerous. "You want to see me act?"

"Not really," he said, but it was too late.

She leaned in close, her hips against his, their noses mere centimetres apart. "Is that a laser rifle in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Stop it," he said.

A couple of waiters snuck out onto the balcony, and lit up cigarettes.

"Oh, Elder," she said, her hand on the stock, and her voice near a purr. "It's so big. I can't imagine how you walk around with it in there all day."

"Stop it," he said. "People are looking."

"Isn't that the point of an act?" she hissed. "People have to see it or it's just some kind of weird roleplay. Hey, what do you say we really give them something to look at."

She put her hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him into a kiss.

He gave in a little too easy.

After a little while, significantly longer than either of them probably expected, he broke away and stared at her with a confused expression. Then he stalked off the balcony, away from her and past the waiters.

One of them made finger-guns at her.

Triss - a little red-faced, I might add - headed back inside, where the waiter picked up a tray of drinks from just inside the door. Triss took one drink, then picked up another saying _one for my beloved_ in a wry tone and immediately tipped it down her throat.

She looked around, and seeing nobody that she wanted to recognize, sat herself down on a chair next to a wooden screen with some fancy pattern of flowers cut into it. Kinda like a confessional.

(You see where this is heading, don't you?)

  
Meanwhile, Arthur had gotten himself cornered by three old Paladins.

"She's got a bad attitude," said one.

"Little old for you, isn't she?" said another.

"I don't see how some pre-war relic can possibly live up to the sorts of standards we require in the Brotherhood," said the last.

"She's perhaps a little rough around the edges," said Arthur.

On the other side of the screen, Triss bristled, and took an angry sip of her drink.

"She's twenty-six," continued Arthur. "If you're concerned about her combat abilities at such an advanced age, I'd ask how old you were when you first picked up a rifle. She was at my side when we stormed the Institute, and I've rarely, if ever, been more confident in a fellow soldier."

She relaxes, a little, and takes a less angry sip of her drink.

"And certainly, there have been moments when she has questioned my judgement, but I'd rather that than blind adherence to my word. I will not hear a word against her in that context. She is my Sentinel. That was my decision. I won't have it questioned."

As the group on the other side of the screen disbanded, Triss realised that she was being watched. A Paladin-Commander, perhaps one of the ones from the previous day.

"So," he said. "You and the Elder?"

"Mhhmhhmm," she said, into her drink.

"I couldn't help but notice things seemed a little tense between you," he said.

"Oh, not at all," she said. "Can't think what gave you that impression."

The Paladin-Commander leaned forward in his chair, somewhat conspiratorially. "So", he said. "What do you really think of him?"

She went to take a sip of her drink, but found the glass empty. "He's a decent tactitian. He's a good shot, I guess. He's done some good in the Commonwealth. I don't agree with everything he says, not by a long shot, but he does at least try to care. I think."

"Well," said the Paladin-Commander. "If you agree with everything your leader says, you're probably a sycophant. Better to be a contrary asshole than a sycophant, that's what I've always said."

  
Naturally, Arthur was still on the other side of the screen, fingers hanging onto the gaps in it, and hanging onto her every word.

He headed back out into the room, a little faint at the veritable torrent of compliments that had just fallen from her lips. He grabbed a couple of drinks from a tray carried by a devilishly handsome waiter, _one for my beloved_ , you know the drill. When he turned around with them he walked right into her.

She took one.

"I heard what you said," he said. "Effusive, as always."

She snorted. "Keeping up appearances, _darling_. I heard what _you_ said. How adorable, defending my honour like that."

"Don't think that anything's changed," he said.

"I don't," she said.

There was a pause. Arthur seemed tense.

"'Decent shot'?" he asked, eventually.

"I've seen better," she said. "Kid I met in Goodneighbor, he could give you some lessons."

"Oh," said Arthur, "well, I suppose you can call him if you ever need fire support."

"Oh," she said. "Were you thinking I'd need you for that? How adorable. Even if I were lying half-dead on the floor, I wouldn't need you to come to my rescue."

"Well don't worry," he said. "I'll make sure not to. And I trust you'll return the favour. I'd rather have my head smashed to pieces than have you help me. It would at least save me from an eternity with you."

They gave each other matching glares. His and hers. Now _that's_ adorable.

Arthur stomped off into the main body of the Citadel, having had about enough of everything, really. He probably regretted not taking another drink from the handsome waiter's tray, or asking him where he'd find a bottle.

Then there was a low, ominous rumble.

Fireworks?

No.

A mutant attack.

Trapped in a corridor, faced by a horde of approaching supermutants, Arthur did what any man would. He dragged a table out of a side-room and set up a small checkpoint. He held firm against a half-dozen mutants, dispatching them with pinpoint accuracy. But then he had to reload. He fell back against the table, ducking his head as a mutant smashed off the corner of it with a spiked board.

Seeing the puny human in front of it fumbling uselessly with the fusion cells he just happened to have in his dress uniform pockets, the mutant raised its weapon above its head.

"Mutant smash human face!" yelled the mutant, in a surprising display of eloquence.

Then it toppled forward, landing directly on Arthur, crushing the breath from his lungs but, crucially, not his face.

He lay there for a few moments, seeing stars, struggling to breathe under the weight of the thing. With a burst of adrenaline (and a very manly roar), he pushed it off himself. Looking at the monstrous corpse, he noticed a knife handle sticking out the back of its neck. Looking back down the hall, he saw Triss, bloodstained and red-cheeked.

"There you are," she said. "Thank god."

She trotted down the hallway, not having to worry about skidding in mutant blood due to the natural cauterizing effect of a laser rifle, and helped him to his feet.

"Come on," she said, leaning down and dragging the knife out of the mutant's neck. It scraped against vertebrae with a sickening rasp, and let a gush of blood onto the floor. She wiped it clean-ish on her dress. "We have to get to the entrance, help stop any more getting in."

Arthur didn't move, for a moment, just watched after her in a daze.

"You are alright, aren't you?" she said.

He nodded, finished reloading his weapon, and followed her.

On the way through, she picked up a rifle of her own from a fallen Knight. They fought their way through the corridors of the Citadel. It was just like the storming of the Institute, the Elder and his then-Paladin, now-Sentinel, side-by-side, calling out dangers, laying waste to the enemy. Except this time she was in a shimmering dress and high heels and looking mighty fine.

(At least to Arthur's eyes, I couldn't possibly comment.)

At the top of a set of stairs, he held her back and seemed to be about to say something. Then a missile took out her side of the steps, collapsing them under her. She fell fifteen feet to the ground, into a smoking pile of debris.

A mutant aimed a hunting rifle at her; Arthur took it out. Another ran toward her with a spiked board (very unoriginal); Arthur took it out. Then he ran down the stairs, two at a time, and straight to her side.

Four mutant hounds darted in through a door, headed straight for the pair. Arthur took three of them out.

(A certain handsome waiter took out the last one with a pistol whipped out from under his apron.)

"Oh my God," she said, groaning and clutching her leg. "Fuck, that hurts."

Arthur pulled out a stimpak that he just happened to have in the pockets of his dress uniform, and held it shakily in his hand, as though he didn't know what to do with it.

"Come on," she said. "Just stick it in already, you're killing me."

  
And that, funnily enough, is exactly what she said when the two of you were conceived. But don't tell your mom I know that.

  
~ THE END ~


End file.
